


yesterday is long ago & far away

by talkwordytome



Series: soft lesbean ratched sickfics [5]
Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Caretaker Gwendolyn, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Mildred Ratched Needs a Hug, Sick Mildred, Sickfic, but does not know how to ask for them the poor baby, mildred just wants cuddles, soft lesbians, they're just soft okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: Gwendolyn takes to waiting for Mildred to fall asleep each night so she can set up a humidifier, and waking early so she can put it away so Mildred won’t ever know it was in use. She runs hot baths with eucalyptus oil, ostensibly for herself, and talks Mildred into taking them with her. She gives Mildred orange juice with breakfast, ginger tea in the afternoons, and protein rich soups for dinner. She feigns tiredness earlier and earlier each night, yawning and stretching exaggeratedly, to ensure Mildred gets a full eight hours of sleep.in which it's not so much that I'mbackon my bullshit and really more that I was neveroffit in the first place.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Series: soft lesbean ratched sickfics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024666
Comments: 29
Kudos: 80





	yesterday is long ago & far away

**Author's Note:**

> yet again, wildnessbecomesyou is out here doing the lord's work aka sending hc's back and forth in tumblr messenger (and also just by being a lovely pal in general!!!!!), because this fic wouldn't exist if I hadn't talked it through with her first!!!!
> 
> title comes from "Beginning to Feel the Years" by Brandi Carlile, which is a beautiful song that you should listen to if you haven't. also Brandi Carlile is a lesbian with a beautiful British wife and two adorable little children, and that's really just the best thing in the world I think.
> 
> re timeline: this fic takes place in November of 1951.

Initially, it’s nothing worse than a head cold.

Mildred, Gwendolyn has learned, is unexpectedly prone to head colds in the autumn months. She blames it on the erratic weather and the damp, grey air. She spends more of October and November sniffling into handkerchiefs than not, and frequently forsakes her customary daily cup of coffee for tea with lemon and honey. She almost never discusses it, but Gwendolyn can see how the illnesses, minor yet abundant, take their toll.

 _Really, it’s hardly even a cold at all_ , Mildred argues about this latest one. _It’s a sniffle, if that_. Gwendolyn isn’t so sure--she’s dreadfully pale, Mildred, and it doesn’t escape Gwendolyn’s notice that her sleep is even more unsettled than it usually is--but when Mildred sets her opinion there’s not much one can do to persuade her otherwise. And as it stands, Mildred’s opinion presently is, _I’m perfectly healthy_.

So Gwendolyn lets it go, for now. She keeps a closer eye than usual on Mildred, and makes sure she eats everything on her plate during dinner. She kisses Mildred’s forehead perhaps a bit too often to check her temperature. She watches Mildred while they have morning coffee, sneaking glances from over the top of her newspaper, and gauges the frequency of her sniffles and sneezes. She very pointedly ignores Mildred’s answering eye rolls when she’s caught.

Two days go by--then three, then four--and as Mildred doesn’t seem to be getting any better, Gwendolyn begins to well and truly worry. She can tell it makes Mildred cross but she can’t help it, and Mildred seems more than content to deny her way straight to double pneumonia. The sniffles, previously a nuisance, turn into proper heavy congestion and are joined by a cough not too long after. 

Gwendolyn takes to waiting for Mildred to fall asleep each night so she can set up a humidifier, and waking early to put it away so Mildred won’t ever know it was in use. She runs hot baths with eucalyptus oil, ostensibly for herself, and talks Mildred into taking them with her. She gives Mildred orange juice with breakfast, ginger tea in the afternoons, and protein rich soups for dinner. She feigns tiredness earlier and earlier each night, yawning and stretching exaggeratedly, to ensure Mildred gets a full eight hours of sleep.

Mildred does not comment on any of this, and Gwendolyn isn’t sure if it’s because she’s feeling too poorly to notice or too poorly to care. She’s not sure which one is worse. 

It’s when nearly a whole week has passed, and Mildred has only gotten sicker, that Gwendolyn finally decides to say something. And that is precisely what starts all the trouble.

They’re in bed. The lights are out. They’re both pretending to be asleep, something Gwendolyn is accomplishing with a much greater success rate than Mildred. Mildred is tossing and turning next to Gwendolyn; every time she begins to get comfortable, her congestion shifts, forcing her to change sides. She’s coughing, too, because her cough is always markedly worse at night. There’s a wheezy breathlessness to it that makes Gwendolyn’s chest hurt to hear. She counts the number of times Mildred rolls to her other side. After the tenth time, she decides to speak.

“Mildred,” she whispers.

A distinctly sullen silence is the only reply.

“ _Mildred_ ,” Gwendolyn whispers again, this time more emphatically.

“What?” Mildred asks, her tone clipped in spite of her stuffy nose, which is very nearly impressive.

Gwendolyn sits up. She turns on her bedside table lamp. Mildred sits up too. Her hair is rumpled and there’s a decidedly feverish flush to her cheekbones. Her nose is red and irritated, and her mouth is parted in a desperate bid to breathe. A hand in Gwendolyn’s abdomen reaches up towards her chest and tugs.

“Sweetheart, you look awful,” she blurts, unable to stop herself.

Mildred’s eyes narrow. “Did you really wake me up,” she asks tartly, “to tell me how hideous I look?”

Gwendolyn rolls her eyes. “You were hardly sleeping,” she retorts. “You haven’t slept well in ages, and you and I both know it, Mildred. You’ve been too sick.”

Mildred scowls. “You’re being ridiculous,” she huffs. She lies back down and turns so her back is to Gwendolyn.

“ _I’m_ being ridiculous?” Gwendolyn asks disbelievingly. “I am? _I’m_ being ridiculous for looking after you, since you seem dead set against looking after yourself? It’s _ridiculous_ that I’m doing everything in my power to ensure that you don’t work yourself into an early grave? _That’s_ what’s ridiculous to you?” 

By the end of her little speech Gwendolyn’s voice is raised, and Mildred’s eyes are blazing. She throws the blankets back and stumbles out of bed. “Nobody,” she hisses, snatching up her pillow, “ _asked_ you to do _any_ of that, least of all _me_ , so perhaps it would be wise to stop acting like you’re some sort of _martyr_ , carrying an undue burden across your weary shoulders.”

Gwendolyn instantly wilts. The fight drains out of her, and she suddenly realizes just how weary she is. “I--I didn’t mean--,” she begins, but Mildred shakes her head and clenches her jaw.

“Don’t,” she says sharply. She coughs deeply into her elbow, and when she straightens again she’s trembling. “I’d like to be alone. I’m going to sleep on the sofa.”

Gwendolyn can taste shame at the back of her throat. “Mildred,” she tries, scrambling to sit up on her knees, “please, let me, I don’t mind, you should have the bed--”

“I don’t want it,” Mildred says mulishly, then stalks from the room.

The bed is colder without Mildred next to her. Her absence rests heavy on the mattress like a lead weight. Gwendolyn clutches a pillow in her arms and tries to imagine that it’s Mildred she’s holding. She allows herself a few soft, miserable sobs until she’s too tired to resist sleep any longer. She drifts off restlessly, and has strange, unsettling dreams about being lost in a labyrinth; she can hear Mildred calling to her, see Mildred’s red hair around every bend, but the moment she gets close enough to touch, Mildred vanishes.

These images are vivid enough that when the warm, slender body presses against her back, Gwendolyn assumes she’s still dreaming. She stirs, half-awake, and reaches out groggily to the figure lying next to her. “I dreamed your name,” she whispers to the phantom-Mildred, “and you heard.”

Something damp falls against Gwendolyn’s neck, waking her more completely. She rolls halfway to her other side and discovers Mildred--her own real, wonderful Mildred--clinging to her as tears drip silently down her cheeks. Gwendolyn wipes them away with gentle fingers. “Pretty girl,” she murmurs, “why are you crying?”

Mildred sniffles, as much from emotion as illness. “Gwendolyn,” she whimpers, “I don’t feel very well at all.”

Gwendolyn coos and sits up, instantly alert at Mildred’s admission. “What do you need?” she asks. “Tea? A hot bath? Cough medicine? Your chest sounds terrible, darling, I’ve been so worried about it--”

Mildred shakes her head. Gwendolyn can feel the movement against her shoulder blades. “Then what, sweetheart?” Gwendolyn asks. She cups Mildred’s soft cheek in her hand. “How can I help?”

Mildred tightens her arms around Gwendolyn’s middle. “Can you just,” she says, so quietly that Gwendolyn must strain to hear her, “hold me? Please?”

It’s like a knife cleaving Gwendolyn’s ribs apart, this simple, plaintive request. That Mildred feels it must be asked for at all, that she sounds worried that she might be denied such a small, good thing. 

“Of course I’ll hold you,” Gwendolyn says, not quite able to mask the tremor in her voice.

Mildred hesitates. “You’re not…angry?” she asks.

“Angry?” Gwendolyn repeats. “No, love, I’m not angry. It’s not your fault that you felt badly. You didn’t mean to be sharp. Neither did I, and I’m sorry I was.”

Mildred’s breath hitches on a watery sob. “I’m sorry too,” she whispers.

They sleep tucked close together like rabbit kits in a burrow. They match the rhythms of their breathing. Gwendolyn wakes before Mildred does. She gets the thermometer from the bathroom medicine cabinet. She lightly shakes Mildred’s shoulder. 

“Open up,” she instructs, holding out the thermometer, and Mildred--too tired to be disagreeable--obeys.

When the three minutes are finished, the mercury has climbed to nearly 102. Gwendolyn purses her lips and glares at the glass instrument like it’s done something to personally offend her. “Doctor,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. “Now.”

The November air is frigid and damp, threatening snow. Gwendolyn bundles Mildred into a sweater, a coat, a hat, gloves, and a scarf. She looks very young like this, her enormous eyes peeking out from beneath all the layers, and Gwendolyn feels a surge of protective tenderness for the little, vulnerable Mildred she never got to know.

They drive to a clinic a few miles away. It’s a Saturday, and the waiting room is crowded with tired parents holding runny-nosed children and small clusters of college students nursing hangovers and injuries sustained the night prior. Gwendolyn signs Mildred in and they manage to find two available seats. Mildred leans against Gwendolyn, too miserable to stay upright.

“Close your eyes,” Gwendolyn says, “and try to rest.”

But Mildred can’t get comfortable. They sit in the hard plastic chairs for what feels like hours, time moving sluggishly as malaria. She can’t stop shivering, and there’s an ache deep in her bones. She pulls at her left earlobe, whining softly. 

“What is it, sweets?” Gwendolyn asks. “Your ear?”

“Both of them,” Mildred admits. “They hurt terribly, Gwendolyn; can’t we please go home? Please? I just want to be in bed. Please take me home.”

Gwendolyn has never, not once, heard Mildred ask for anything with such naked desperation in her voice, and it very nearly undoes her. How can she possibly say no? What sort of monster would that make her?

Luckily, a nurse calling Mildred’s name saves Gwendolyn from having to make that particular decision. The nurse looks suspicious, like she wants to ask Gwendolyn her relation to Mildred, but a steely glance from Gwendolyn stops that line of questioning in its tracks. She takes Mildred and Gwendolyn to the back. She weighs Mildred first (it’s a smaller number than Gwendolyn would like, and makes a mental note to continue her attempts to diversify Mildred’s diet beyond bologna and peaches), and then leads Mildred and Gwendolyn to the exam room. Mildred curls up on the exam table, and Gwendolyn covers her with her own coat like it’s a blanket.

The doctor is a woman named Dr. Morris, approximately Gwendolyn’s age, and is much warmer than the nurse. She offers both of them bright smiles and makes small talk with Gwendolyn as she prepares to examine Mildred. She seems to--correctly--sense that Mildred is not quite feeling up to conversation. 

She takes Mildred’s temperature (resting solidly 102 now), and feels her lymph nodes (which are swollen). She frowns and _tsks_ as she looks into Mildred’s nose, throat, and ears. She mentions something about Mildred’s tonsils--perhaps that they need to be removed--which concerns Gwendolyn such that she ends up missing most of what Dr. Morris says. Dr. Morris’s frown deepens when she uses her stethoscope to listen to Mildred’s chest.

“You’ve got yourself a nasty case of bronchitis, Miss Ratched,” Dr. Morris says once the exam has concluded, briskly removing her gloves and tossing them into the wastebin. “Not to mention two middle ear infections and a sinus infection.”

“Oh,” Mildred says faintly.

“I told her to rest when this was still a head cold,” Gwendolyn says, aware that she’s nagging but worried she’s somehow being blamed for Mildred’s condition. 

“Ah, she has problems slowing down, this little one?” Dr. Morris asks. There is something like a secret in her smile, like she and Gwendolyn have something private and happy in common. Gwendolyn warms to her instantly.

“She won’t do it,” Gwendolyn says, laughing, “not even if the threat of death or dismemberment is involved.” 

“I have a similar problem of my own,” Dr. Morris says, nodding sagely. There’s a merry twinkle in her eyes.

Mildred opens her mouth to defend herself, but ends up succumbing to a small sneezing fit instead. A coughing fit follows, and by the time she’s caught her breath Gwendolyn and the doctor are making sympathetic eyes in her direction.

Mildred is prescribed medicines for her cough and ears, along with fluids, steam treatments with bromelain, and very stern instructions to thoroughly _rest_. They stop at a deli on the way home so Gwendolyn can get their biggest container of matzo ball soup. Mildred quarantines herself in the car. The order only takes a few minutes to be ready, but when Gwendolyn returns she finds that Mildred has fallen asleep, her head resting at an awkward angle on her shoulder. Gwendolyn shifts her so her neck won’t get stiff, and Mildred murmurs fretfully. 

Gwendolyn half-carries Mildred into the house as Mildred sniffles blearily into handfuls of tissue Gwendolyn pulls from her pockets. Gwendolyn serves them both heaping bowls of soup, along with buttered slices of rye toast. Mildred sips and snuffles her way through about half a bowl and a few small nibbles of toast, which Gwendolyn considers a victory. Gwendolyn polishes off her own bowl and steals Mildred’s crusts, then points in the direction of the living room sofa. Mildred wordlessly complies.

Gwendolyn turns on the kettle and drapes Mildred in a wool blanket. She gets a box of tissues from their bedroom. She’s about to leave it on the end table before she thinks better of it, and drops it directly onto Mildred’s lap instead. She doesn’t quite laugh, but she does look slightly less strained as she coughs into a fresh handful of tissues. The kettle sings, and Gwendolyn fixes a steaming cup of mint tea. She places it on a tray, along with a dose of cough syrup, which Mildred tosses back like it’s the last swallow of bourbon. Gwendolyn laughs out loud. Mildred manages a small, wan smile.

Gwendolyn sits on the other end of the sofa, and Mildred resettles herself so her head is in Gwendolyn’s lap. Gwendolyn begins to run soothing hands through Mildred’s hair before Mildred even has to ask. Mildred tilts her chin so she’s staring up at Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn smiles.

“Hello,” she teases. She holds Mildred’s hand and presses a kiss into its palm.

“Hi,” Mildred answers, nuzzling into Gwendolyn’s stomach. “Will you tell me a story?”

Gwendolyn laughs softly. “Sure, I’ll tell you a story,” she says, scratching the top of Mildred’s head like she’s a particularly sweet kitten. “What about?”

Mildred thinks for a moment. “When you were little,” she asks, “did your family ever go on vacation?”

“Every summer,” Gwendolyn says. She graces her fingers over Mildred’s brows, her eyelids, her perfect bow of a mouth. “We had a cabin in the Catskills.”

“What did you do there?” Mildred asks, her voice hardly more than a whisper. She sounds closer to sleep than she does to wakefulness.

“Oh, lots of things,” Gwendolyn muses. “My father and I loved to hike, and my mother and younger sister would spend hours sunning next to the lake. At night we’d get dressed up and have dinner at one of the big resort restaurants, and Beatrice--that’s my sister--and I would order all the Shirley Temples we wanted, or sometimes pink lemonade, and it always made me feel terribly glamorous. And there were fireworks on the Fourth of July, and we’d lie on a blanket outside our cabin to watch them, and the explosions made the Earth seem like it had a heartbeat….”

Gwendolyn keeps quietly telling stories, even when it’s clear Mildred isn’t really alert enough to listen. Her words drift like incandescent soap bubbles into the air. The afternoon takes on a syrupy sweet quality; time seems to settle, slow down, disappear. Mildred’s slow blinks turn into slow nods, and eventually her head drops down to her shoulder, just as it did in the car. In her sleep she sighs, and it might be the most contented sound Gwendolyn has ever heard. On her breath Gwendolyn smells the bittersweet medicinal tang of the cough syrup, the heat of her fever, the faint salt of the soup broth.

Gwendolyn lightly runs her fingers through Mildred’s hair. Mildred is a heavy, cozy weight draped across her legs. _She’ll sleep for a few hours, and then we’ll make dinner_ , Gwendolyn thinks. It is such a spectacularly lucky, lovely, timely thought. _I’ll cook something warm_ , Gwendolyn decides, _and sweet, like waffles with syrup and hot chocolate_. Something nourishing, enough to see them through. She is so happy she can give Mildred this.

Gwendolyn’s eyes begin to close, unbidden, lulled into dreams by the steady rise and fall of Mildred’s chest, the congested hitch to her breathing. She’s reminded, vaguely, of how it felt to fall asleep somewhere that wasn’t home when she was very young; like she was floating away on an enormous ship, the comfort of knowing someone would be there to take her into their arms when it arrived, safe and sound, into port.

The afternoon slides on like butter melting, and Gwendolyn waits for healing.

**Author's Note:**

> if you think it's over the top or ridiculous that Mildred had bronchitis, an ear infection, and a sinus infection all at once, please know that that has happened to me many times during my life, including spring break my 3rd year of teaching. children are truly the grossest tiny germ magnets. like, I love 'em! but they're nasty, my pals.
> 
> did you see that tr*mp has finally agreed to begin the presidential transition process??????????? maybe a coup is less imminent than I feared??????????
> 
> hahahahahhaha second Ratched fic in two days hahahahahah can you tell I am going through an ADHD hyperfixation???? because I AM and it is REAL, friends!!!!!!!!!!!


End file.
